The Erotic Writer

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Waiting for the Ferry

Waiting for the Ferry
A Second Erotic Doodle by Redbud

She couldn’t say why.

She was lying on her side, in grass. Her boyfriend was leaning back against a cedar, knees up, legs open. Their bikes, with their panniers, rack trunks, tent and gear leaned against the cedar’s backside. They had biked 46 miles. Their shirts were damp. She wasn’t wearing a bra, only a short-sleeved shirt. The day was warm but not hot. The sky was clear. The white of the horizon was gradually giving way to purple. The snow of the Olympics was just beginning to glitter with pinks and reds.

They waited for the ferry.

Everything felt a little sharper and a little sweeter. The air was heavy with the scent of evergreen and salt water. They were in no hurry. They watched for the ferry and didn’t watch. They had found a place to sit that wasn’t hidden, but was theirs. The narrow lawn, at the edge of what was mowed, curved downward and tumbled into weeds and ledge, then the brackish fingers of low tide. Wracks and kelps moved back and forth, quickly with the smaller waves of the bay. There was no roar.

How easy to write that she was reminded by the back and forth of the water; reminded of how easy the lovemaking had been, how inevitable. They had camped on the shore, where they could hear the Pacific. He had moved in and out and in again, like the tide. She had closed her eyes in the dark of the tent, then opened them to peer at the stars. He had moved above her, darkly, quietly, softly, strongly, deeply. She could hear his breath, or was it the tide? The nylon shells of their sleeping bags, zipped together, slipped and shuffed under her.

The smell of him, of sea salt, and the heat of belly pressed against hers, over and over. The sand, under the floor of the tent, shifted under her, with her. The shore crackled with the sweep of water upward, then down. Her own cries swell and exhale with his own upward sweep and withdraw. She spread and drew back her legs to receive his water. How else to describe it? Men can only imagine. She might say that a man and his cock are one and the same; that when she feels him in her womb, she holds and contains him.

Her body celebrated twice before his own salt gushed inside her; and then she was the shore, the earth, her tits the mountains, and the stars spun.

But writing that would be too easy.

When she saw her lover’s cock up the legs of his shorts, flaccid and at rest; when she reached and pushed the hem of his shorts upward and closed her fingers around him, the lovemaking of the days before were nothing she was thinking about. She listened to him talk as she slowly, delicately, felt his cock gradually harden until it slipped out and upright above the hem.

She pressed her thumb against the tip, released him, smelled her fingers, and him[ then took hold of him again. They continued to talk as they watched the undulating colors and the first smattering of distant lights on the opposite shore. She moved her hand up and down, slowly, enjoying how the skin of a man’s cock slides so softly over the solid ache beneath.

She didn’t even look at him.

This was just something she did and couldn’t have said why. She didn’t speed up or slow down. They saw the lights of the ferry before they heard the deep gurgling of the motor.

She felt his twitch, his wetness streak her wrist, before she heard his repeated spatter in the grass.

She didn’t pause her slow pull and slide when she felt him dampen her T-Shirt, her breasts and nipples. They watched the ferry slow and maneuverer. She gently squeezed him as he softened and soaked her fingers. She only glanced at him as she let go of him and pulled the leg of his shorts back down.

They got up and took to their bicycles.

She didn’t change her shirt. “This is my lover on my breasts,” she would have said. “My lover .” But nobody asked or even noticed the dark tincture of her nipple showing under the white cotton fabric. Her nipples were stiff and tender and her breasts were swollen.

She would be asked by a friend – and a week later – what the best sex had been.

She would answer that the best sex had been when they were waiting for the ferry, that at that moment she had loved her lover as fiercely as if he had been inside her, and she couldn’t say why.

6 comments on “Waiting for the Ferry

  1. The Lustful Literate
    May 28, 2012

    Ahhhh…so you’re closer to me than I thought. Interesting, and fun. I can tell by the detail that we share a lot more than just the love of erotic art and literature. I, too, call the Olympics my home. Crazy. And fun.

    • willcrimson
      May 28, 2012

      I would call the Olympics, not my second, but my other home. :-)

  2. paul1510
    May 28, 2012

    sounds idyllic.
    I remember such days, girl, mountains, sea, only a different country, so what.

    • willcrimson
      May 28, 2012

      I hope all of us have memories like these and, if not, that we’ll make some.

  3. Beautifully written. The natural sleepy ease mixed with hunger, the warmth of the day and the feeling if being separate from the rest of the world made this an experience rather than simply a story.

    • willcrimson
      May 28, 2012

      Thanks CMB, I love those moments of sheer, sensual contentment. I probably haven’t written enough about moments like these.

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